the only way out is through

well, crap.

Dec 16, 2023

I am ignoring climate change existential dread and am embracing a brown December

Does the world really need another introspective white-lady, full-of-woes introspective post? My writing teacher would say yes, yes it does.

Last week, I wrote about setting an intention to become more mindful with how I choose to use the time I have, with this one wild and precious life of mine.

And I managed to install an app that puts a (self-imposed) annoying time limit and firewall on social media apps on my phone. While my monkey brain has discovered a way around these temporary annoyances, I am noticing more of my mindless tapping and scrolling. They say that awareness is the start to making meaningful change, don’t they? (say yes)

I had a second session with my new therapist, and I can already tell that this will be a helpful connection. She’s an ex-Mormon (which, yes, I find fascinating), plus she’s got background work in CBT, trauma-aware practices, and some somatic therapies — which is probably the best mix for a somatic-curious, therapeutic connoisseur like myself. More than ever, I can see I need to get OUT of my head, and into my body.

What I didn’t see coming in this new therapy work was the uncovering of a lot of past hurts and traumas I’ve been avoiding for — oh, … decades.

If you know and love me, then you know that I love me some bad reality TV. It’s safe to say I can lean into “learning” everything about terrible tv shows on TLC and Bravo. Maybe it’s the guilty pleasure of watching someone else’s life on fire instead of my own? More likely, watching this televised dreck requires minimal emotional investment or intellectual effort from me, which is always a win for a grrrl who lives in her head.

One of my guiltiest of pleasures is watching Welcome to Plathville, or, a reality TV show featuring a family of the-village-of-the-damned-meets-fundamentalist-Christianity:

yes they are all terrifyingly blonde and full of the holy spirit.

The whole premise of the show is a fish-out-of-water kind of story. The Plaths are a devout family who have raised their (many) children out on a farm in rural southeast Georgia. They haven’t been exposed to the “evils” of the “outside world:” whether it be secular music or sugar. Google describes the reality show as:

The Plaths are a blonde, blue-eyed family of eleven in south-eastern Georgia. They share a passion for music, religion, family life and traditional roles.

For the first few seasons, it’s a fun show to watch. There’s something about watching a grown man drink a Coca-cola for the first time! And as someone who has grown up in a conservative family environment, I can relate to what it feels like to push the boundaries of ideologies that have been imposed upon you.

But for the most recent season, the show has had a decidedly darker vibe. This last season has been all about the dissolution of the family — both for the larger Plath family (the parents), and for the relationship of the oldest son, Ethan, to his wife Olivia.

2 breakups. 2 stories of couples outgrowing each other.

While I understand the background of this show is entertainment, and that much of what we see on screen is completely set up for the camera, what is not false are the feelings that follow whenever someone you love chooses to accept an idea or a faith belief over having a relationship with you. I know that feeling, all too well.

Which leads me to more of the internal work that I have ahead of me.

A couple weeks I wrote about wanting to look at more of the parts of myself that feel so ‘stuck.’ As I start to think about the internal renos I’ve doing, I can see that so much of the work I have to do will require me to look at some really hard chapters of my life — ones that I haven’t looked at, thought about, discussed, or considered for a long time.

So often I can feel “homesick,” or as if I’m not in a place where I fully belong — and as for someone who considers two different countries to be her “home,” it makes sense. Yet while I like to tease about my identity not being fully-American or fully-Canadian, I think there’s more fractures to my self-image then I care to admit.

Yesterday my therapist floated the idea that much of the work I have ahead of me will be to process a lot of the complex trauma I experienced growing up in the evangelical church. And as soon as she uttered the T-word, I could feel the collective eye-roll of the universe in hearing yet another privileged white lady go on and on about her hurt feelings. Shouldn't I just be happy and accept that everyone has a hard time in their life?

Shouldn’t I save the cPTSD diagnosis for someone who really deserves it?

Maybe. Or, maybe I should be a little more curious, and less dismissive of what I’ve been through.

I'm not sure where this [whatever ‘this’ is] will go, or how difficult it will be. As someone who values being articulate and clear with her words, I’m without a vocabulary to process a lot of the experiences and rejections that have formed me into who I am today. I don’t know what to expect when I flip over the proverbial rock that has been the last 20 years of my life, but I do know I am curious to explore all the weird bugs and forms of life that have been living in those shadows.

When we ended our therapy session yesterday, it was difficult — those initial sessions can feel like a lot. Sometimes even skirting the emotions of the experience can be enough to throw me off, and then I find myself right back to that same hard, difficult place I left. But as a way to get back into the moment (and back in control of my nervous system), my therapist encouraged me to learn to look for the opposite of triggers in my life, the "glimmers.” And I have a lot of those.

She also had me say, to myself, “I’ll come back for you.” Which — honestly — still makes me feel a bit weepy inside to repeat back to myself. I will come back for me. I don’t know what is in there, but I know for me to feel more whole, this is something I need to do for myself.

Things that brought me joy this week:

I’m still enjoying the writing course I got for myself. Last Sunday we talked about how to weave the political into the personal — which, well, stay tuned for future posts about that. Ceasefire now. Abortion is heathcare.
No classes this last week or in the week ahead — but a Dec 22nd final exam. I am going to try my hardest to practice what I preach, and not work over the Christmas break. Instead, I’m going to be what my family needs.
AI is magic, and it made us into cute toys:
My Xmas cards are sent and so are gifts, snowflakes cut and hung on the window, and there’s already baking in the freezer. I’m nearly on track for the holiday.
Watching: Corrections. Reading: Hemlock Island. Listening: Finally Woken by Jem (early 2000s jam!)